SCARLETT’S KNIGHT: Knowing you, knowing me

Chapter 2

Now that I have had a good look at him, I can say for certain that he is beyond pretty. The only other man in the world I can compare him with is Will Smith, and even then, he doesn’t come close.

He has a complexion that makes you think of hot melted chocolate and round brown eyes that have a glint of mischief. They are those type of eyes that are capable of inviting you in, but at the same time saying, stay away. His stubble makes me wonder how it would feel if he runs his cheek between my thighs. His hair is curly like it has been permed. If I were to guess, I would say he is a hybrid.

Way to go, making him sound like a cow, I chuckle to myself.

The suit he has on wears him like a second skin and by the definitions of his muscles, you can tell that he works out…a lot. And his smile …oh, let’s not talk about his smile. It is the one that could get a woman’s skin filled with goosebumps, her brain turned into mush and her panties disintegrating in an instant. His angular jaw, well-defined cheekbones and rough voice wrap up in a neat little package this epitome of masculinity. This man is God’s gift to women.

“You are staring and blushing. I wonder what dirty thoughts are running through your mind,” he says, showing his white teeth.

The hostess comes back with some fruit salad and we immediately start eating…well me, because am starving. If she had taken any longer, I would have started munching on this poor chap’s soul.

I look down on my lap to prevent him from seeing the blush that is creeping up my cheeks. He is spot on, but I am not going to tell him that.

When I look up, he has his eyes on me, in wonder? It’s like he is having difficulty figuring me out.

“Am just trying to read you, that’s all,” I say stubbing a pineapple in my plate with a fork.

“What have you come up with so far?” he asks popping a grape in his mouth.

How I wish I was that grape.

“A whole lot. You are pretty much an open book,” I say with a shrug. He gives a hearty laugh and shakes his head.

Daaaym, he has dimples. How have I not noticed his dimples?

“Well, you are hard to read. What is your story?” he asks picking another grape.

“What makes you think I have one?”

“Everyone has a story. You sound intelligent, your English is impeccable which means you have had some form of education and you are beautiful. The only thing I see wrong about you is the oversized dirty clothes you are wearing. Other than that, you can rival a runway model and win, easily. So, I ask again, what is your story?”

He looks at me again, this time holding my gaze. I am still stuck on the beautiful part. I am intelligent, yeah, beautiful, nah. If his purpose was to make me feel worse about myself than I already do, he just did. Suddenly, I have lost my appetite.

“Are you trying to patronize me?” I ask, hurt.

“Why do you say that? Don’t you believe you are pretty? Why?”

“Well, I am not pretty. When you are told that time and again you tend to believe it,” I snap.

“So am guessing I should add self-esteem issues to the list of questions to ask, huh. Well you are pretty and whoever told you that, has issues of their own that should not concern you in the slightest,” he says holding my gaze, again.

Does he really mean that?

“Well, you should not concern yourself with my feelings either. These are poor people problems and rich dudes like you who went to international schools and bathe caviar wouldn’t know them, now would they?”

“Well, that is where you are wrong. I went to a public school. My father had this notion that it would humble me. As for caviar, it’s not bathed in, just eaten.”

Cocky much?

“Of course, I know that. I was trying to be sarcastic. And tell your dad he wasted his time, making you humble is like squeezing blood from a stone,” I say rolling my eyes.

“Has someone ever told you that you are cynical?” he says with a scoff.

“Yes, every day of my life,” I say with a flourish. He sighs and shakes his head.

“So, what do you love doing?” he asks changing the subject. I am thankful for that because frankly, that conversation was leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

“I love painting and drawing,” I say, excitedly. I delve into different styles of drawing, telling him how serene I feel when I am holding a paintbrush or charcoal, and how I love the smell of paint.

“I can tell you love it, by the way, your eyes light up. Can I see some of your work?” he asks.

Should I show him? My drawings are like my inner thoughts, like the way one would write on a diary. Giving him my book would mean opening up my thoughts to the world. Can I really trust him with them? Oh, what the heck, the worst he can do is laugh at them, by which I will just knock all his teeth out. Doesn’t matter how perfect they are.

I open my satchel and take out the book I have been carrying around for five years, and hand it to him. As he peruses, his eyes grow wider and wider. He stops on a page that I had drawn of a building down the street, a few years back. It is the tallest one, giving shape to the Nairobi skyline. I always wonder how it would feel watching the sunset from the top of KazTech. It would be spectacular, I am sure.

“Why did you draw this?” He asks, tracing the lines of the building with his fingers, and looking at it with wonder.

Once again, I am imagining how good it would feel if it were my skin he was tracing instead of that piece of paper.

Girl, get a grip. This guy is way above your league. Like a million light years above your league.

“It was a crazy dream I had a while back. It’s stupid,” I say, shaking my head and staring again at my lap.

“Tell me,” he demands.

Domineering much?

“Well, I dreamt that I was seated on the helipad of that building staring at the sunset. I bet it would be stunning. Whoever owns that building should be proud,” I say, smiling.

“Yeah, I bet he is,” He says with another chuckle. What did I say?

“Well, it is not stupid. Dreams do come true, without that possibility, nature wouldn’t entice us to have them.”

“You are quoting John Updike?” I say laughing.

“Yes, how do you know him?”

“You said it yourself, I am smart. Believe it or not, when I am not being sarcastic, I read.”

“Am surprised you get time for that when you are always globetrotting,” he says with a smirk.

“I wouldn’t say globetrotting per say, maybe city trotting. When you are homeless, you don’t have a choice.”

His shock is evident, but it doesn’t dwell any longer on his face. I guess he understands that if it were him in the situation, he wouldn’t want to talk about it either.

“What if I tell you I have a way to change that?” He asks looking at the drawing one last time and then handing me back my book. “I could use someone like you at my workplace.”

When the word use comes out of his mouth, I wince. I don’t like that word. I have been used enough in my life, and hell will freeze over before I let someone else use me again.

Even if that person is insanely hot, like reaaaly, reeeally hot.

“Thank, but no thanks. I like my city trotting just fine, Mr. Kazam.” I say, raising up. “Thank you so much for breakfast. I was wondering where I was going to get my next meal, but you took care of that.”

“Hey, you don’t have to leave. It was just a suggestion,” he pleads, also getting up from his chair.

“It’s okay. I have to go, anyways.” I leave the restaurant in a hurry, my head swimming with what I had to go through when I allowed people to use me. On the sidewalk, I look back at the restaurant and see him rushing out. I smile. He is the first person in a long time that has shown me kindness.

The thing is, he is not smiling. Instead, he is yelling at me to stop.

Why is he telling me to stop? I already told him I wasn’t interested.

I realize it too late, that I am in the middle of the road and that there is a lorry charging at me with horns blaring.

Oh, shit.

Before I can react, I feel immense pain on my side and then, my body is being dragged through the rough tarmac.

Scarlett, you were not supposed to die like this.

This is my last thought before everything goes black.

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